Underneath
by Shiny-and-New
Summary: It was the look in his eyes that England couldn't forget. US/UK, dark. Written for the Hetalia Kink Meme prompt that was basically: America's dark, hidden side.
1. Chapter 1

_Written for the Hetalia Kink Meme_

Initially, England had blamed the economy. Granted, the current economic conditions were all America's fault to begin with, but England could still understand the younger nation being tense because of it. It wasn't as though America was acting particularly different, anyway. He was just a little less loud, a little less boisterous, and England actually appreciated the change. It made the meetings considerably less irritating.

Indeed, he'd found no real reason to be concerned about America at all (besides the normal level of concern, which he refused to think about too deeply) until his former colony had thrown France through a window.

It had been during a fairly typical meeting of nations, which meant that it had been mostly unproductive and entirely annoying. He'd picked a fight with France over something small, possibly having to do with wine. It had been downright playful considering the viciousness of some of their past arguments, and England hadn't been aware that America was even paying attention to it. The series of events had gone something like this:

England had called France a filthy, snail-sucking pervert.

France had slapped him across the cheek, though it had been almost laughably gentle compared to some of the blows he'd dealt in the past.

America had leapt across the table, seized France by the lapels of his coat, and tossed him through the window, all in one motion.

The shattering glass had silenced every conversation in the room, all the nations gaping in shock and more than a little horror at what had happened. Two things stuck out bright in England's mind from the entire incident. Number one, Russia was the only one who hadn't looked gobsmacked. Instead, the nation had smiled a little, his expression eeriely reminscent of someone who'd just seen an old friend. Number two, the look in America's eyes when he turned to stare at England could only be described as 'absolutely fucking crazy.'

Then the moment had passed, and America had started swearing in shock before darting downstairs and out of the building to check on France. For his part, France was more or less unscathed by the fall or the glass, probably due to the fact that the room they'd been meeting in was on the second story. He'd actually laughed as America had given him a hand up from the ground. England had felt like he'd entered the Twilight Zone. America had been extremely subdued and apologetic for the rest of the meeting, with the other nations giving him a wide berth. By the next day, nearly everyone seemed to have forgotten it. England was half convinced he'd hallucinated the entire incident.

It just didn't make any _sense_. America was at worst an idiot, but he'd always been sweet-natured and friendly. He loved to rush into battle, but England knew it was from the joy of fighting and the desire to be a hero rather than any desire to see someone hurt. Even if America was stupidly impulsive, it wasn't like him to attack with such...bloodlust. The look in his eyes that England had caught was something the older nation would have expected to see in some serial killer's mugshot, not on his former colony. Still troubled, he went to see France, hoping he'd have an explanation for America's actions, such as that France had made some incredibly offensive pass at him and America had simply been biding his time and waiting for revenge.

"Things between myself and America are fine, Angleterre," France said. "No need to worry about him losing an ally here."

"That's not what I asked you," England snapped. "Why on Earth would he attack you? You weren't even fighting with him."

The look on France's face was cagey. "As I said previously, I don't have a clue. Perhaps he was simply in a poor mood."

"America doesn't have 'poor moods'," England said. "He has differing levels of annoying cheerfulness. You honestly have no idea why he tossed you out a window?"

"No," France said, far too quickly and easily.

"Tell me."

"I haven't a clue-"

"Tell me or I'll toss you out a window myself."

"So rude, Angleterre, so very rude," France said, putting a hand across his heart as though wounded. "If I had to guess, I'd say he was bothered by my little lovetap."

"He..." That especially didn't make sense. Why would America give a damn if France slapped him? If France were legitimately attacking him, then England would've expected America to step up to his defense; they'd been allies too many times to expect differently. But for him to take umbrage at someone casually bothering England? It went against everything he knew about his former colony. "Why would you think that?"

"Listen, America is a sweet nation," France said, smiling fondly. "And he cares a great deal for you-"

"What? No, he doesn't."

"Please don't be deliberately stupid, it is so unattractive on you." France leered at him, more out of habit than anything else. "Anyway, he was likely very concerned that I might have hurt you. He's always had a bit of a temper, you know that."

"But why the hell would he overreact so much?" England was genuinely baffled. It wasn't as though America had ever shied away from hurting him when the younger nation had deemed it neccesary. England could still remember the raw pain when America had rebelled, the feeling that something precious had been ripped away from him.

"I don't know," France said with a shrug. "He was always protective of you, even during his war of independence. He specifically asked me not to cause you too much damage, if I could help it. Perhaps you should ask him yourself?"

England decided that was probably the best option.

"Too much coffee and not enough sleep," America said, laughing nervously. He seemed incredibly embarassed that England had brought it up at all. "I saw him slap you, and my hero instincts kicked in."

"I'm not some damsel that you need to rescue in your idiot fantasies!" England snapped. America just laughed.

It was a perfectly reasonable explanation; America had charged in without thinking and made an ass of himself, as usual. But that didn't explain the look in his eye, the one that had so unnerved England. He hadn't brought it up to France, and it wasn't as though he could just ask 'Hey, why did you look like you were two seconds away from killing everyone in the room?' Instead, England asked, "Anyway, is everything all right? You've been acting a bit different, France-tossing aside."

"Everything's fine," America said, all shiny teeth and Hollywood insincerity. England narrowed his eyes.

"Are you sure? Because-"

"Look, England," America said, and his voice seemed a little strained, "let it go. I apologized to France, and we're totally cool. It won't happen again."

But England couldn't let it go. The look in America's eyes in that moment...it reminded him of scorched earth, of the sky during The Blitz, of being all alone in the middle of the night and a thousand other things he couldn't articulate. It made him angry that he couldn't articulate it, angry and slightly nervous that his former colony, his America, could be invoking those feelings.

With all that in mind, he went to visit Japan, hoping for some more insight.

"Has he been acting strange?" England asked, gratefully accepting some tea. "You two are friends. Has he mentioned anything being wrong?"

"What do you mean by strange, England-san?" Japan asked, quirking his head to the side.

"Just...different." _Crazy,_ he mentally added.

"Well, he has been stressed, of course. We all have. The wars, the economy, Iran and North Korea being, ah, Iran and North Korea, they have all weighed on him." Japan shrugged. "But otherwise, he is fine."

"He threw France through a window."

Japan shrugged again, smiling awkwardly.

"It just doesn't make any sense," England mused, more to himself than to Japan. "I mean, he's never had a scary moment in his entire life..." He trailed off at the quicksilver flash of disagreement on Japan's face, quickly covered up. "Japan?"

"It is none of my business."

"No, what is it?"

Japan was silent for several moments, looking to his left as though in deep contemplation. When he finally spoke, his voice was halting. "World War II was a difficult time for us all, regardless of whose side we were on. I do not hold him responsible for the choices he made then. We are both different people now."

England had no idea where this was going, but he nodded encouragingly.

"At the end of the war, he dropped the atom bomb on my country." _Oh._ That's where this was going. England sometimes forgot that of all the countries that had nuclear bombs, America was the only one who'd actually used them. Japan continued speaking. "The last meeting we had before he did this, he offered me a chance to surrender. I did not intend to take it, and he knew this, but he offered it anyway. During that meeting, he did not seem altogether well. He was very angry, much more aggressive than usual, and he was somewhat unsettling to be around. He spoke often of you."

"That makes sense, we were both Allies."

"No, England-san," Japan said. "He did not talk about the Allies. He talked about you, and how he was not going to allow an invasion of Japan to put you in danger. He talked about you almost obsessively, in fact. I ended the meeting by saying I would not surrender, and that was the last time I ever saw him like that. It would not have been particularly memorable, but the look in his eyes..." Japan trailed off and smiled awkwardly again at England. "I'm sorry, England-san, I am off-topic. Anyway, he seems fine now."

England was not so sure.

But he was fast running out of other people he could talk to about whatever the hell it was he'd seen in America's eyes. He couldn't just go door to door and ask everyone if they'd seen America act strangely. It would get back to America, first of all, and this was something England was feeling increasingly private about. But he had to know. And so, having run out of reasonably friendly faces, England turned to Russia.

"What do you want?"

Russia's greeting was as warm and friendly as ever, England noted.

"Hello, Russia. Good to see you're full of cheer," England said, leaning against the doorframe of Russia's house.

Russia smiled, although it was really a better example of 'baring teeth' than smiling, and then asked in the exact same tone, "What do you want?"

"I want to talk to you about America."

"Ha!" Russia's laugh was booming, startling the birds in the trees. "What do you think I've got to tell you about your little colony?"

"You were, well, not close, but saw him frequently during your Cold War," England said._ And you were the only one of us who didn't look horrified when America attacked France_, England thought. It could just be nothing; Russia was as far from sane as most nations could become, and inappropriate reactions weren't exactly new to him. But England had a feeling about this. "I was hoping we could talk about his behavior back then. You know, look back fondly on old times, chew the fat, whatever the expression is?"

"You are a terrible liar," Russia said, still smiling horribly. His eyes slitted and he turned his head to the side, reminding England uncomfortably of a scientist looking down at something pinned and wriggling on a slide. "This is about America tossing that pansy through a window, da?"

England said nothing, simply staring up at Russia. Russia smiled wider and stepped aside, giving England room to get into the house. Once he was inside and the door had closed behind him, it was not exactly something England was happy about.

"So what is it that you want to know about America?" Russia asked, once they were both seated in what England thought might be a study of some kind. It was dark, there were books everywhere, and swords hung on the walls. It did not lend a comforting air to the conversation.

"I'm just a bit worried about him."

"If you were just worried about him, you wouldn't be talking to me," Russia said, leaning back into his chair. "Either get to the point or leave."

"When he attacked France, you were the only one of us who wasn't surprised," England said. For once, he appreciated Russia's brusqueness. It meant he would get a straight answer. "Why?"

Russia smiled, and there was nothing reassuring in it. He glanced off to the side for a moment, as if deep in thought, playing with the edges of his scarf. Then he began to speak.

"World War II was an interesting time, da? By the end, most of the globe was on its knees, too battered and beaten to be the threats they once were. It was the same all through Europe, and it was the same for you." Russia's teeth seemed to glint for a moment. "I was the only one left standing, still a superpower, still poised to make the world mine. I looked around for challenges, and the only one staring back at me, standing as tall as ever, was America.

"I already know this," England snapped, not liking the look in Russia's eyes when he talked about America.

"Heh, so you do," Russia laughed. "Well then, something you don't know, da? When I think of the Cold War, one memory sticks out to me above all the others. It was winter in Moscow and the snow was falling heavily. America and I were meeting, along with some of our dignitaries, and it was all very tense and falsely polite. America did not return to the meeting after a break, and I went to look for him. I found him standing outside, looking up at the snow. He did not look at me, and for a moment I thought I'd snuck up on him. But then he said to me 'This is what it will be like when we launch the bombs. There'll be ash as far as the eye can see, and it'll fall like snow. We'll go out and play in it.' It has been sixty years since that day, and I can still remember every word. Then he turned to look at me, and the the expression in his eyes was like nothing I've ever seen before or since. It was fascinating."

England was finding it a little hard to breathe, the oppressive weight of the gloomy little study and Russia's words bearing down on him. He could see the scene in his mind perfectly, America grinning in the snow, glasses fogged and eyes mad.

"Before the Cold War, I mostly thought of America as your little bastard offspring, a loud waste of space that had taken Alaska from me. But that all changed. Because he saw the world the way I did, felt what it was to be powerful when no one else was, and he revelled in it."

"You're lying," England said, before thinking. "He's nothing like you."

"You want so badly to believe that he's still a child at heart, good and pure and untouched by reality, da?" Russia's eyes glinted in the dark. "But I was not matched against a child; he was my equal, and he was fearless. You all think it was me that held the world hostage for so long, the threat of nuclear bombs like a gun to your head. But it was he who pushed things, he who dared me, he who first said 'mutually assured destruction.' He told me once that he'd pull the trigger if I would. But I never wanted the end of the world."

"And you're saying he did?" England asked, voice shaky.

"I'm saying he didn't care," Russia replied. "He wanted to see what would happen next. He wanted things to end in a bang. All in all, he was very agreeable company."

England had no idea what to say to that. None of it made sense, none of it seemed possible. How could America, silly, sweet America, have done any of what Russia was claiming? It was impossible to reconcile his memories of a laughing little boy with the lunatic Russia was describing.

"He has a soft spot for you, though," Russia mused, almost thoughtfully.

"No, he doesn't," England insisted, voice nearly at a whisper. Russia laughed.

"I would tease him, you see, describe in great detail how his buildings would burn and his people would die screaming. And most of the time he would tease back, laugh and tell me how his tanks would flatten my cities and the streets would turn red with blood. Except when I talked about you. I made one little comment about how London would be a nuclear wasteland and you'd be on your knees before me, begging for any kindness I'd offer, and it made him furious. I was lucky my heart was not inside me that day, since he shoved a knife straight into my chest." Russia smiled cheerfully. "It left a very nice scar. Would you like to see it?"

"You're insane," England said. In retrospect, he realized it was the equivalent of staring at water and calling it wet, but at the time there was nothing so prominent in his mind as the need to tell Russia how absolutely mad he was.

"Oh, everyone thinks that, da?" Russia waved his hand indulgently. "It is old news. He started changing after a while, becoming as boring as the rest of you, but I still see the flashes of who he truly is sometimes. I miss talking to him very much; hopefully, I'll get the chance again."

"That's not who America is!" England snapped, standing abruptly. He wanted very badly to get out of this room. It was like he was claustrophobic, like the walls were closing in. "You saw him at a bad time, that was all. We've all had bad times."

"And you're so sure that you know who he really is?" Russia laughed, standing as well. He towered over England, casting him in his shadow. "When you found him, he was already a child, had already been alive for who knows how long. You took him in, but you did not create him."

"You're wrong," England protested. But even as he said it, he couldn't help but think of fairy tales, of the stories warning about the things that lived in the dark woods. Changelings, monsters, wolves in sheep's clothing. It was ridiculous and he knew it. There was nothing that unusual about how he'd found America, he was sure of it. But the thought still lurked there, like eyes peering out from the trees.

"Da, perhaps I am," Russia said, still smiling. "But there is blood on your little America's hands, lovely and red, and I have seen what he he has tried to hide from you."

"Thank you for your time," England said, so quickly that the words all blurred together. He grabbed his coat and damn near fled from the room. He needed to get out of there _now_.

Behind him, he heard Russia call, "Feel free to come back any time. I enjoyed our talk."


	2. Chapter 2

England used the flight back home to ponder what to do with all the new information he'd learned. The problem was that he had no idea _what_ he should do, really. Simply filing it all away in his mind seemed wrong. He felt restless at the mere thought, as though he had been building up to something and doing nothing instead would be a terrible mistake. But he wasn't sure what other option he had. It wasn't as though America had done something dangerous or terrible, something that necesitated a meeting or even taking him into custody. He was just very...England wasn't even sure what the word for it was.

So. He had to do something. It occured suddenly to him that the next step was fairly obvious. He needed to go talk to America. When he reached London, England bought a ticket on the next flight to the States.

America was surprised to see him, to say the least. The younger nation's eyes bugged behind his glasses in a way that made England fight down a smile.

"England?" America said, once he'd regained his bearing. "What the heck are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd drop by for a visit," England explained, which wasn't entirely a lie. "Could I come in?"

"Yeah, of course," America said, stepping aside to let England into his house. "I wasn't expecting you, is all. Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," England said, standing awkwardly in the foyer of the house. Now that he was here, he wasn't really sure what he was actually going to say. 'You don't have a bunch of bodies rotting in your cellar, right?' Somehow, he didn't think that would go well regardless of the answer.

"Do you want some tea?" America offered. "I think I've got a couple packets stashed at the back of the pantry. I mean, I don't know if they're good or not, beacause, ew, tea. But you might like them, and-"

"Tea would be nice," England said, cutting off the string of babbling. He already felt reassured. So what if America had been slightly unhinged during his Cold War years? It was like he'd told Russia: they all had bad times. England could remember plenty of times throughout his own history when he'd teetered uncomfortably towards madness. He felt rather silly for getting so worked up.

He followed America into the kitchen, noting that the house was more or less unchanged from the last time he'd visited. That too was very reassuring. He sat at the table and watched as America set about making himself a cup of coffee and England a cup of tea. The entire scene was rather pleasingly domestic.

"So, what's up?" America asked, sitting down at the table and scooting England's tea over to him.

England wasn't sure where to start. He decided that at least a bit of the truth would probably be best.

"I've been thinking about the last meeting," he said, sipping his tea and trying not to grimace at the taste. At least America had tried. "Specifically, what happened with France."

"Oh. That." America looked down, turning his coffee mug around and around in his hands. "Look, that was--I mean, France isn't-"

"No, I'm well aware he's not angry," England said. "It was just so...unlike you." He took a deep breath. Saying the next words felt physically painful. "I was worried about you."

America beamed at him, and England resisted the urge to throw hot tea in his face. "Do not make me regret it," he added acidly.

"Sorry, sorry," America said, holding up his hands and laughing. "I just like seeing you lose that stiff upper lip and admit to having feelings like the rest of us."

"I'm going to slap you."

"Sure you are," America said easily. He sobered a little as he stared at England for a moment. "I'm sorry if I worried you. I'm fine, seriously."

"America, you _attacked_ France."

"It wasn't..." he trailed off with a sigh, adjusting his glasses as he thought. "Things have just been rough, you know? I feel like the entire world is just waiting for me to screw up, and that's all I've been doing lately. I'm worried that everyone's going to get hurt because of me, and then France slapped you and I just sort of saw red." America's lips twisted. "Didn't like seeing you get hurt, even if it wasn't anything to be worried about."

"I don't need you to be some kind of white knight to me, America," England said. "I've been taking care of myself for a long time."

"Would it be so bad to have someone looking out for you?" America asked, staring up at him from lowered eyelids.

"I don't know," England said, allowing himself to look at America consideringly for the first time in...well, the first time in ever, besides the realm of fantasies he'd rather not have admitted to himself. "It's never happened before."

After that, England steered the conversation to topics slightly more mundane, and by the time America was done with his coffee, England was feeling enormously reassured. He felt like an ass, having gotten himself worked up the way he had. The trip back home would be considerably calmer, he could tell already. He excused himself to go to the bathroom during a surprisingly comfortable break in their conversation. He could feel America's eyes on him as he walked out of the kitchen.

It wasn't until he was headed back from the bathroom that he noticed the picture of himself hanging in the hall. He stopped instinctively and was peeved to realize that what he'd immediately recognized was his own eyebrows. Grunting in irritation, he stepped a little closer to the picture, trying to remember where it had been taken. The fading light from outside didn't help much, since it was practically night, but he eventually placed it.

It was from the G8 summit last year. Based on how rumpled his clothes were, it was probably well into the meeting. England stared at it for a long moment, trying to understand why he felt increasingly uneasy looking at it. Finally, it clicked. He couldn't remember having his picture taken at that summit. In fact, the England in the picture didn't seem aware of the camera at all, staring into the middle distance with a faintly irritated expression on his face.

America had taken this picture without him knowing it. England took an alarmed step back, right as he heard America call out, "England? Everything okay?"

Later, much later, England would curse his own moment of indecision. If he'd just been able to speak, he could have made his excuses to America and left quickly, and maybe gone the rest of his existence being able to feign ignorance.

That wasn't what happened.

He was still badly shaken from the photo, staring dumbstruck at it. Coming on the heels of all of his calm, pleased feelings about America, it was a little like turning over a rock to see something _squirming_ underneath. There was no avoiding the feeling of horror.

"England?" America called again, appearing at the end of the hall. For a moment, he was nothing but a silhouette, the light spilling from the kitchen throwing a long shadow down the hall towards England. Then he clicked the lightswitch on, flooding the hall with light and making England blink. "I heard the bathroom door open, I wasn't sure if..."

America trailed off as he came to a stop in front of England and saw what the other nation was staring at. England wasn't sure, but he thought he saw America's eyes flash.

"What is this?" England asksed, voice tight, gesturing to the picture.

"Looks like a picture of you," America said glibly, cheerfully. But England could see the way America seemed to be trying to figure out how much he knew.

"You took it without me knowing," England said, not letting America joke his way out of the situation. He wanted to take a step back, suddenly very aware of just how much taller America was, but he held his ground.

"Yeah," America said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking down. "Look, I wanted a picture of you, and didn't want to ask you. I thought you'd say no and be a jerk about it, so I took one myself. I don't see what's the big deal."

England wasn't sure how to articulate it, how to explain that it was like a curtain had been pulled back and he could suddenly see everything in perfect detail. The falseness in America's movements, the danger that the picture of him represented, all of it stood out starkly.

"Because you _snuck up on me_ and took a picture of me, and you did it all without me knowing, and--" he flailed, unable to explain it. The urge to step back got stronger.

"Like I said," America said, smiling at him, faking embarassment in a way that would have fooled England completely two weeks ago, "no harm meant. I'm not exactly proud of it. I'm sorry."

And it suddenly clicked for England. France, Russia, Japan, they'd all been _right_. God, they'd been completely right. Well, almost completely. America cared about him, yes, but it wasn't anything that simple or reassuring. England was beginning to fear the reality might be that America was obsessed with him.

And England was alone with him.

"France said--" England cut himself off sharply. If they'd all been right about America's feelings, it seemed increasingly likely that they were right about the danger America posed. England didn't want to turn America's attention their way.

"France said what?" America said, stepping even closer to him, still smiling widely. _What big teeth you have_, England thought, before he could stop himself. "Did France say something about me?"

"It's none of your business!"

"Oh, I actually think it is," America said. He loomed over England. "It's totally rude to talk about people behind their back, you know."

"I haven't been talking to anyone behind your back!" England snapped. While technically a lie, it was one he felt entitled to, especially when he felt his shoulders bump up against the wall as America boxed him in.

"That why you've been going on a world tour?" America asked, irritation tinging his voice.

"That had nothing to do with--wait." England's mind felt like it was somehow working lightning fast and painfully slow at the same time. England had been travelling nearly constantly, round trips to France, Japan, and Russia, but he'd been paying for it out of pocket instead of listing it as a business expense. No one should have known about it. Unless...

Unless America had been spying on him. Unless America had been spying on him so long and so efficiently that he could monitor all of England's comings and goings without the older nation ever having a clue.

"Oh my God," England muttered, the enormity of it hitting him. America instantly realized that he'd given himself away.

"Oops." The look on America's face was one England recognized; it was the one he'd always worn when he was a child and had been caught doing something bad. It made the entire moment a thousand times more surreal and terrible.

"I'm leaving," England said, trying to push past America.

"Now, Iggy, just hold on," America said, voice soothing, blocking England's path.

"Don't call me that, and don't get in my way!" England snapped, trying not to panic. He had to get out, he had to get away, he had to leave _now_. Hell, he'd take an entire day with Russia to dealing with America in his current state.

"Just calm down, we need to talk," America insisted, grabbing England's shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" England shouted. He felt a flash of animal terror and punched America in the jaw.

It was like hitting a brick wall. He felt a bone in his hand crack, the pain making him cry out and fall backwards with a bone-jarring thud. America's head whipped to the side, but he was otherwise unmoved. England remembered suddenly, horribly, how strong the other nation was.

"England," America said, smiling and rubbing his jaw, "you really shouldn't have done that."

"Get away from me," England ordered, voice low and tight. "If you think you can just-"

"Aw, England," America said, smile as sweet and sunny as ever. Except for his eyes. _The look in his eyes..._ "Always barking out orders, always trying to be in charge. Always trying to bend everyone else to your will. Your citizens, not so much anymore, but you? You never change."

America lunged forward, nearly faster than England could see, and the smaller nation found himself dangling a foot off the ground, his shirtfront caught in America's fist. He clawed at America's hand, but to no avail. It was like trying to scratch concrete.

"But I did change," America said, still smiling. "You just never noticed."

And suddenly England found himself flying down the hallway, tossed hard by America. He hit the far wall with an impact that rattled the entire house, and England felt some of his ribs bend dangerously, felt his neck slam against the wall with a crack that terrified him. He slid to the ground with a thud, pictures raining down on him from the walls like the house itself was helping attack him.

England lay still for a moment, trying to catalogue his injuries. His hand was broken from hitting America. The ribs on his left side were definitely bruised, and turning his head made the muscles of his neck scream out in pain. The glass from the pictures had sliced small cuts through his jacket and along one side of his face. Things were definitely not good.

But he could still walk, which meant he could still run.

England shoved himself to his feet and lunged towards the door. His hand actually closed around the knob before America grabbed his shoulder and yanked him backwards, slamming him against the wall again.

"Oh no, I don't think you get to leave just like that," America said, wrapping a hand around England's throat and pushing him further up the wall. "We still have some things to talk about."

"Get your filthy fucking hands off of me!" England shouted, clawing at America's face, trying to get behind his glasses to the vulnerable eyes underneath. A terrified, mad part of him wanted to scrape that _look_ out of America's eyes.

"Ha, no, I don't think so," America laughed, grabbing England's wrists in one hand and pinning them against the wall, almost effortlessly. "You just had to play detective, didn't you? Things between us were fine; why'd you have to screw it up by sticking your nose where it doesn't belong?"

"America," England panted, blinking a little as blood from a cut on his forehead trickled into his eye, "America, you need help. Something is _wrong_ with you."

"That something has been wrong with me for a long time, England," America said, still smiling cheerfully. That was probably the most disturbing part of it all. America was acting exactly the same as usual, except he was pinning England to a wall and very possibly about to murder him.

"No, no, this is-"

"You just didn't see," America murmured, letting his forehead touch England's gently, like this was some kind of tender moment they were having. "You didn't want to see." His voice went hard. "It wasn't convenient for you."

"Don't you dare try to blame me for this!" England hissed, eyes inches away from America's.

"Oh, of course it's not your fault," and America's smile went hard-edged then, too. "Nothing's ever your fault. You do whatever you want to the people who're weaker than you, you make them love you, and then you just leave-"

"You rebelled!" England said, incredulous.

"I saw what you were," America said, squeezing down hard on his throat until England gagged for air. "I was something for you to use, and you didn't give a damn that I loved you! You didn't give a damn about anything but yourself."

"You're insane," England gasped out, shaking his head. What in God's name was America talking about? The little bastard had rebelled, he'd cast England off and left a hole in his heart that had never quite filled, and he had the nerve to accuse England of leaving? The outrage spurred England on, and he reared back and slammed his head against America's nose as hard as he could.

He heard the crack of glass and a howl of pain, then suddenly the hands around his neck and his wrists were gone. England's body wanted to slump to the floor, but he knew that he needed to get out of America's house if he wanted to survive. The only problem was that America was blocking the door.

England took several steps back towards the stairs, mind whirling as he tried to figure out what to do. America looked up then, nose bloody and one side of his glasses cracked.

"Ouch." He grinned. "I actually felt that one, Iggy." Then America lunged for England again.

Panicked, England threw himself up the stairs. He could get out through the second story if he had to, he just needed to escape America long enough to get a window open. That would probably be easier said than done, though.

Sure enough, he felt America's hand lock onto his ankle like a vise, tripping him and sending him sprawling forward. England just barely caught himself, throwing his hands in front of him to keep his head from slamming against the stairs. America grabbed his shoulder and flipped him over, dropping his weight down onto England so hard that it knocked the breath out of smaller nation. America managed to pin one hand (thankfully not the broken one, though England was so full of adrenaline that he might not have felt it) underneath his knee, and had a hand locked hard around the other one. The were both silent for a moment, panting.

"I'm the one who's a monster, huh?" England said after a moment, lips drawn back into a snarl. "I'm the one who doesn't care about anyone else?"

"Oh yeah," America said, smirking a little. "It's still you."

"You're out of your mind," England said, because it bore repeating and if America was going to strangle him to death here on the stairs, he might as well get an insult in before he died.

"It's been said before, yeah," America said, letting his free hand rest on England's neck gently, fingers exploring the already forming bruises. England was trying to work up a suitably scathing retort when America spoke again, voice dreamy and fractured. "It only got worse, the bigger I got. There were so many people, and they were all so different, and I could hear them in my head, all at once. And some of them _hated_ each other, hated like nothing I could understand. They wiped each other out, enslaved each other, hung each other, left each other poor and diseased and broken. They screamed about skin color, about religion, about where they were from, like they weren't all a part of me. Like I didn't love them all. And they all needed help, they were all screaming for it, and all I ever wanted was to help..."

America ducked his head so that England couldn't see his eyes, and his shoulders shook. England had literally no idea what to do, besides squirm underneath America and pray he got a chance to escape.

"But I was okay!" America said suddenly, brightly, head popping up with the familiar smile firmly in place. "I was handling things just fine." His fingers caressed England's throat again before tightening _hard_, so hard that England couldn't breathe at all. "And then they tried to split off from me. They tried to _leave_, my states, my people. They tried to leave me, and I was split in two, and they were killing each other, I couldn't--there was nothing I could do, England. They were all dying, and there was nothing I could do." His hand loosened on England's throat and he looked down, expression as heartbroken as England had ever seen.

"America... " England said, hesitant, wondering if he could defuse the situation if he just said the right thing. "America, it's okay. It's okay, we've all gone through that, it's not your fault."

"No," America said, voice and expression going dark suddenly, eyes gleaming madly behind his fractured glasses. "No, it was my fault. I didn't make them stay, just like I didn't make you stay. I wasn't strong enough." He laughed harshly, the sound loud and terrible in the silence of the house. "I wasn't strong enough to keep you from dumping your colonists all across my shores, and I wasn't strong enough to keep you with me when I did want you here."

"My colonists?" England asked, baffled. "America, they were your people-"

"I made them my people," America said, voice dark and silky, predatory, so unlike America that it was like a stranger was perched on top of England, crushing the breath from him. "It took a long time, you know. I had to push in all the right places. It was worth it, though. I knew I had to be strong to hold onto you."

"I was never yours to hold on to," England said, snarling a little.

"You were always mine," America said, grinning, teeth looking oddly sharp. "From the minute I saw you, you were mine.

England swallowed. He needed to get America off of him, and pinned down as he was, it wasn't going to be easy. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before looking up at America again. "Prove it, then."

America raised an eyebrow.

"If I'm yours, prove it," England said. Sneering, he added, "Unless you don't have the nerve."

America laughed softly, leaning over England until their faces were inches apart. "You think I can't see what you're doing." His free hand drifted across England's face, skimming along the edge of a cut. "You must think I'm an idiot."

"Are you turning me down?" England asked, voice equally quiet, body gone still.

"No," America said simply before leaning down and kissing England.

It was gentle and soft, completely at odds with everything that had happened that night, and England felt a sensation oddly like heartbreak. _It shouldn't be like this,_ he thought, leaning up a little to kiss America back. _It should never have been like this._

America let go of one of his wrists to run the back of his fingers along England's neck, movements still slow and gentle. England let himself lean into the touch, parting his lips to let America deepen the kiss. He made a soft sound, and felt America smile.

"First kiss," America murmured, lips never really leaving England's.

"It's a very strange one," England replied, eyes closing. He felt America shift, freeing his other hand, and he held still, knowing it was a test. After a long moment when the only sound was their harsh breathing, America relaxed.

England struck instantly, shoving America backwards down the stairs.

America's face was pale and shocked as he tumbled back, but England only caught a glimpse of it. He was on his feet in an instant, half-running and half-crawling up the rest of the stairs. His body was a cacophany of pain, a dozen different injuries all howling as he moved, but forced himself forward, ducking into the first room at the top of the stairs.

It was a guest bedroom, small and dark, but the window overlooking the yard was the sweetest thing England had seen in centuries. He locked the door behind him, wishing desperately that it had a deadbolt, and shoved one of the dressers in front of the door for good measure. It wouldn't keep America out for long, but it would buy England some much-needed time.

Except the window wouldn't open. It was stuck fast, as if it hadn't been opened in decades, and England was still straining against it and his broken hand when something slammed into the door with an almighty crash that shook the house. England froze for a moment, terrified. _America_.

Then he resumed struggling with the window, growing more and more panicked as it wouldn't open. He managed to jerk it up an inch, then two more, while America slammed himself against the door the entire time. England had just managed to get it open halfway (not nearly open enough) when the door was torn off its hinges entirely and the dresser was kicked across the room, legs squealing harshly against the wood floor.

America stood in the doorway, looking surprisingly calm and holding a machete in one hand.

"That was very clever, England," America said, smiling a little. He was bleeding, a long river of dark red leaking through his hair and down his neck, but his attention was entirely focused on England.

"That's my knife," England said stupidly. But it was. He recognized it from one of his trips through the Amazon, the chip in the blade from an unfortunate encounter with one of the native tribes.

"I've had it for twenty years," America said glibly, stepping forward into the room. "You clearly didn't miss it." He held the machete up, pointed towards England. "Get on your knees."

England glanced at the window, still stuck half-closed. He glanced at the knife, and remembered how it had effortlessly sliced through plants as thick as his arm. He sank to his knees, hands held up in the universal gesture of 'I mean no harm'. England doubted America would put much faith in that.

"I wonder how many of your other colonies would love to see you like this," America mused, his chipper smile still firmly in place and his eyes like nightmares behind his cracked glasses. He waved the blade hypnotically in front of England's face. "The ones in Africa, India, Australia, me. Maybe even Mathew. You crushed us underneath your boots like we were garbage. They weren't all as lucky as me. You leave a trail of destruction and death wherever you go."

"Look who's talking," England snarled up at him.

America lashed out, kicking him in the chest hard and knocking him onto his back. England wheezed in agony, feeling like his sternum had been cracked in two. It didn't help when America straddled him, knocking whatever breath he had left out of him.

"I wish I didn't love you," America said, losing his smile as he stared down at England. He looked sad and serious and so, so dangerous. "God, I'd give fucking anything not to love you."

"Let me go," England hissed, voice weak from the pain.

"No," America said simply. He used the machete to gently trace a line up England's chest, across his throat, until the tip of the blade was resting just underneath his right eye. America's voice was sorrowful and earnest as he said, "It won't be pretty. It won't be fun, or easy. Change never is. You'll survive it, though; we're hard to kill. Believe me, I know. And when I'm through with you, things will be better. We'll be together." He laughed, voice cracking midway through. "Forever."

There was no running, and no fighting America off, and England knew he wouldn't be able to trick the other nation again. So he took a deep breath and did the only thing he could think to do.

"America," he said, "I'm sorry."

America went still on top of him.

"I'm sorry," England continued, voice a little stronger now that he had his breath back. "I never...never knew that you were going through all of this. And I wish I could say that I would have made it all better if I had known, but you're right. I'm not always a nice person. I've hurt people and done it gleefully. I hurt you." He locked eyes with America. "And I'm sorry. But America, this won't fix things. This won't make them better. You have to let me go." He swallowed. "Please."

America did nothing for what felt like hours, just looking down at England with an expression that had gone blank and inscrutable. Then he stood suddenly and said, so quietly that England didn't hear him at first, "Get out."

England blinked up at him.

"GET OUT!" America roared, and England didn't need to be told twice. He hauled himself to his feet and nearly fell down the stairs in his haste, never slowing down once. Adrenaline pushed him forward when he might have collapsed, and he didn't dare relax until he was speeding down the highway, putting as many miles between America and himself as he could.

He didn't look back.

**Epilogue:  
**England didn't stop until he hit America's border, waiting until he was well into Toronto before finally pulling over and getting himself to a hospital. He refused any painkillers, and may have overreacted slightly when they offered to sedate him. Predictably, Canda showed up within an hour of England being checked into the emergency room.

"What _happened_?" he gasped, staring in horror at England's injuries.

"How long?" England said instead of answering. At Canada's uncomprehending look, England added, "How long did you know about America?"

To Canada's credit, he didn't try denying anything. Instead he said, eyes pleading, "He's my brother, England. What was I supposed to do?"

"I would have appreciated a warning," England said, smiling frostily, "before he tried to slit my throat."

Canada just swallowed, looking shell-shocked. "What are you going to do?"

"Oh, I think I'll leave it to him to act," England said, tapping his fingers on the cast on his hand. He glanced out the window. "It shouldn't take long."

Canada did not look reassured.

His boss was equally wary when England got back to London and explained that he wouldn't be making any more trips to the States.

"I'm not suggesting we cut diplomatic ties with America, obviously," England said calmly, sipping tea in his boss' office. "That would be quite dangerous. But America and I have had a bit of a personal disagreement, and it would be in everyone's best interests if we let our politicians handle things between countries."

His boss' eyes kept flitting between the stitches on England's forhead and the cast on his wrist. "Yes, of course. Are...is everything all right?"

"Oh, everything's fine," England said, smiling pleasantly. His eyes had a distinctly cold look in them. "Oh, one more thing. I'd like a gun."

"What?" His boss gaped at him, startled.

"Will that be a problem?"

"No, of course not, but..." The other man seemed lost for words. "Are you absolutely _sure_ everything is all right, Arthur?"

"Yes," England said, and his smile held a distinctly sharp edge. His boss hadn't been alive long enough to recognize the look in his eyes, but he felt extremely uncomfortable regardless. "It just never hurts to be prepared."


End file.
